Anne McElvoy: The teenagers put paid to my fantasy family holiday

Is there rogue software inserted into teenage minds to deflect any ingress of information about their holiday destination? You spend months fomenting interest in the place and planning the unavoidable middle-class museums odyssey. You agree equal quantities of culture and pool time. Foolishly, no lawyer is involved.

Advance deals are struck about the amount of time to be devoted to the iPad. All of this is about as useful as a pair of Ugg boots in the Turkish sun, packed on the grounds that they are “cool”.

Day one. The teenagers can’t remember where we are going. So much for all those conversations about the Ottoman empire. “You never said Turkey meant Ottoman.”

Day two. The Topkapi, a collection of treasures worth a heist film all of its own, beckons. Eldest flicks a dismissive glance at emeralds the size of plums and declares them “all right”. Junior teen is lying on the grass feigning heatstroke, assuaged solely by headphoned doses of Coldplay. Only the eight-year-old listens to the guide.

Day three. Having brought enough luggage to double the profits of a budget airline, the teenagers turn out to have one respectable shirt between them and a range of JD Sports’ riot-wear that no adult admits responsibility for buying. At the splash-out restaurant, faced with a menu of intriguing Turkish delicacies, they order steak and chips.

Day four. Might one request a change of reading material from the multiple eviscerations of Game of Thrones? One might not. “You want me to read, don’t you?” Initial plan for two cultural exploits daily has slumped to a cursory visit to a single museum.

Day five. The beach is deemed too hot, the sea too salty. Having invested in shades, sarongs and multiple Boden accoutrements, the teens then want to retreat to the chlorinated soup of the rarely cleaned local pool on the grounds that they serve awesome Magnum ice-creams.

Any attempt to use the holiday for purpose-of-life reflection or meaningful conversations with the other half is interrupted by a noisy hunt for the iPad, whose wellbeing is central to the entire vacation.

Of course, it could always be worse: the whole point of teenagers is that they could be worse, without even trying. But the lure of the perfect holiday is strong, the fantasy of sun-kissed, multi-generation families impossible to resist.

And even if yours have spent half the day sulking in the bedroom, tales of frustration with teens tend to elicit far worse ones by return of email. One friend spent day two cleaning up the sick in a villa after her post-exam offspring and guests drank raki by the pint. Another’s best beloved got left behind in transit in Abu Dhabi because he’d been too plugged into his iPod to hear the announcements.

So, day six. Parents decide little can be done except to top up the teen life-forms with cold drinks and extract wet trunks from under the bed. Wine o’clock has moved back two hours.

Day seven. Last day spent creating artful pictures of group looking affectionate and well adjusted, the contemporary equivalent of Prince Potemkin’s villages. Teens have discovered contraband fake branded goods in local market. In return for another round of parental quantitive easing, peace and love break out. It’s been an awesome holiday.